


Lick Your Wounds

by yoolee



Category: Samurai Love Ballad: PARTY
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 05:29:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12550176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoolee/pseuds/yoolee
Summary: Inuchiyo wins a competition where you happen to be the prize, and you convince him to claim his winnings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PUPPY LOVE.  
> Beta'd by han-pan on tumblr :)

Inuchiyo had  _won_.

You were…well frankly, you were still attempting to process that information it was so surprising. It seemed improbable. Impossible.

It’s not that he wasn’t reasonably capable of basic intelligence, or wasn’t strong; you knew quite intimately that he was completely capable of great feats, it was just, well, he didn’t always think things  _through_ , you supposed. And with the slippery, inscrutable Lord Ieyasu, and the bookishly brilliant Lord Mitsunari, and the ever-cheerfully-calm Lord Hideyoshi all in the same competition Lord Nobunaga had set to his retainers, full of tricky twists, it just seemed… _surprising_ that the master of them all had ended up being your childhood friend. The same boy who charged blindly into battle by himself, turning around to solve riddles and scale cliffs. Well, that last one, at least, you could believe, but  _overall_ —"I can’t  _believe_ you won, Inuchiyo.“

Profound annoyance flashed across his features, which had already been drawn into an irritated frown. "The hell do you mean by that?”  _Oops_. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but before you could murmur a mostly-meant apology, the annoyed eyes flickered closed, a sigh relaxing shoulders that were clearly tired from the trial they’d endured. “Like I’d lose, idiot.” He was mumbling around a bandage between his lips as he bit off the edge of it, tearing it from the tie, and automatically your hands reached out to take it from him as he continued, “Did you forget what the prize was?”

Right.

Your cheeks seared with a dizzy flip of your gut.  _You_ were the prize Lord Nobunaga had offered.

Or more specifically, a place in your bedding.

Your hands froze over the bandage you’d taken from Toshiie, suddenly acutely aware of the heat from his skin and the pound of your heart. It struck you, not for the first time, that they were something to look at, his shoulders.

You remembered the thin, jutted shape of their childhood, a memory only now, but vivid in your thoughts, squared, determined, and always between you and even the perception of danger. They weren’t thin, anymore, but still they protected you. Your fingers moved again, slowly, mindlessly tracing the shape of the muscle beneath the bandage, hard and solid as stone, encased in warm, slick silk.

A sudden flick of fingers against your forehead startled you. He was looking at you, troubled, tired smile on his lips. “Don’t look like that.” Guiltily, you started,  _had he noticed_? But he was mumbling, looking away from you already with his head sulkily on one hand and hurriedly you went back to bandaging, blindly reaching for the warm washcloth he’d been using a moment ago. “I wasn’t going to let anyone do anything, and I’m not gonna do nothing to you either.”

The sudden, searing protest of your heart puzzled you for a moment, until you identified precisely what the emotion was that you felt so keenly and abruptly.

Oh.

You were  _viciously_ disappointed.

That was…interesting, wasn’t it?

You found yourself unable to blink, suddenly, hands mechanically, gently wiping the myriad of fresh cuts and reaching for another bandage, even as your eyes trailed down from shoulders to his chest, and lower. Your lips felt dry, and you ran your tongue over them in a quick, nervous dart. The sumptuous, sprawling room the Lord of Fools had locked you both in felt at once too warm and too small. You heard your voice, and were shocked by the low, breathlessness of it, “Why not?” Your fingers stilled, and you leaned forward, rising to your knees, palm pressing against where your hand had paused, and marveled at the swift, thundering pace of the heart below where it rested.

“Ah—why, wha—” The sudden, total scatter of his thoughts, was endearing. Adorable. You lifted your other hand to rest on his neck, tapping your nails against the flying pulse you found there too, resting your palm against it and feeling daring and beautiful in his eyes, flickering in the lantern light. You were reflected there, only you, as they swam from shock to unmistakable, lingering want. You realized then that you had seen it before, in his eyes, but you hadn’t noticed until it was in your own stare too. He jerked away from your hands and, heart sinking a bit, you let them fall in your lap, settling back onto your knees.

“You know why.” He bit off the words, and you adored the blush scattered over his cheeks.  _Oh, Inuchiyo_. It was obvious to you at last, and you felt silly and warm and safe, and it was your turn to look away, glancing down briefly as you blinked away the warmth suddenly behind your eyes.

The shoulders you had been watching so closely were tense now, jumpy. The lantern cast curious shadows across his skin, stretched in scarred stories over a shape you knew but had never seen quite in this light. Suddenly nervous, you dabbed the bandage in sake, and brought it to your lips, licking away the extra drops.

It tasted like fire.

The movement caught his gaze, and, fascinated, you watched his eyes darken to an unrecognizably deep color. That was…that was interesting too, wasn’t it? You wanted to try it again, but opted for something else. The fire was in your blood already, crackling and quiet, like a spark not yet fanned free. “Let me,” breathless, you leaned in, too close you knew, but he didn’t flinch, merely froze as your wrapped your hand around him, using it to guide the soaked bandage around a wound he’d earned for your sake. You couldn’t quite reach all the way around him from where you were, and you watched the shadows dance once, twice, and then hiked your skirts and slid across his lap, straddling him to tug the bandage tight.

“Hey, what are you—”

You let your hands stop at last, tying and tucking the ends. You stared at your handiwork, letting your fingers pause above other scars, and wondered if this too would leave one.

If you would leave one.

You couldn’t seem to catch your breath, even as you watched his chest rise and fall in labored surprise. Your hands splayed, feeling the warmth of him. “Inuchiyo…” No, you shook your head, “Toshiie…”

“Ye…yeah?” He sounded dazed, drunk, though uncharacteristically, he hadn’t let a drop pass his lips after his win had been announced.

His heart beat under your hands, and yours was in his though he had no way to know it, yet. You were quiet, for a moment, and then felt his hands come to rest on your hips, as thought to lift you off, and you curled your fingers and yanked your head up to meet his darkened stare. “I think…you should claim your prize.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy, fllowery smut for puppy. I don't know if it really earns and E rating so much as M but I'd rather be cautious.

His eyes widened, impossibly large.

You laid a hand on his cheek, and brushed your lips to his, light, chaste and adoring…and you were completely unprepared for the fire that ripped through your system, rocking it to pieces, total and consuming. At your brief, tender caress his hands had dragged from your hips across all of you, crushing you to him: he was devouring you with a kiss so deep and dark and sudden you gasped into it and were lost utterly in the depths. Even as your own eyes went wide in shock, he overwhelmed the shape of your kiss with his own, visceral and starving, warm and sweet, plundering and praising alike with deft darts of a tongue that had formed your name endlessly in his lifetime. You couldn’t keep up, couldn’t process the hunger, and in what little space of your brain that could form coherent thoughts, it reminded you of battle: pure chaos of thundering cries and crashing metal, blood dashed on rock and pounding to the tips of your toes and into all that made you who you were. You tried to call his name but he stole it from your lips like a man dying for the taste of it. Your heart raced, head spun, as his hungry kiss went deeper, savage and desperately sweet, his strong arms wrenched you to his chest and hands held you so closely you felt their heat soak inexorably into your unsteady bones.

You were lost in the taste of him, the sting of blood and sweat and a dark, wild scent that was his alone, torn between craved and cherished as his hands tugged at the fabric of your shoulders.

And then your back hit the floor, and his eyes flew open, and he jerked back, like a wounded animal still half-frozen above you.

For a moment, you could only stare, trembling, thoughts spinning madly as you gasped for the breath that had been irrevocably stolen away. You hadn’t known someone could kiss you like that, drag you under into some airless bliss of taste and heat and immediacy.

He looked so lost.

“I’m sorry,” he was gasping too, you realized, and the shuddering breaths sounded like a sob, “I’m so sorry,  _damn it,_  I didn’t mean—”

The suddenness of it left you unsteady and clamoring. How could a man—how could Toshiie, your Inuchiyo,  _yours_ —kiss you like his life depended on it one moment, then stare at you as though it were lost the next? You couldn’t keep up, lost in a haze of heat and heart and  _want_ and bewildered by it all.

“I don’t…” It was hard to form words, but with the horrible, wide-eyed heartache in his eyes, you had to, and you scrambled for them. There was still no air in your lungs, and your heart thrashed with such speed it gave the impression of a single, screaming beat, endless and uncertain of anything but the knowledge you had been  _thoroughly_ kissed and then left bereft, and for some reason, your dearest friend in the world looked pale and haunted as a wounded heart. You licked your dry lips, and he winced as you tried again, breathless, “I don’t think I want you to be sorry.”

His hands were tangled in his hair, shaking. He’d pulled back, sitting with his knees to his chest while you were to the side. You’d seen him in battle, and now you’d tasted him too; he was thrilling and beautiful and you were terrified by the desolation in his expression now. You sat up, slowly, hand restlessly landing over your heart, urging it to calm, and all you could be was honest. “I think,” no, that was too weak, you  _knew_ , “I want you do it again.”

“I can’t.”

He wouldn’t look at you, and you found you missed his stare enough to beg for it. Gently, you pressed a hand to his arm, and felt watery relief in your bones when he didn’t flinch from it, “I’m not afraid of you, Inuchiyo.” Or of what had happened, exhilarating and total.

“It’s not that.” There was something pitiful and broken in the whisper, and he shook his head irritably, “Or not totally, that’s a  _part_ , but not…ugh,  _argh_!” His head fell into his palms, and his fingers were white where they gripped the roots of his hair.

Part of you wanted to tell him that ’ _argh_ ’ was not really helpful in attempting to discern what the issue was, but that part was far outstripped by the aching need to soothe. You left the hand on his arm, scooching next to him to let your other hand drape over his shoulder, and pull him close. He let you, and you felt his arms reach for you, and pull you from the side into his lap, wrapping listlessly around your waist as his head came to rest in the crook of your neck. His arms trembled, rendered lax by some unknown grief. You placed your arms around his shoulders, and held him tight.

“Sorry,” He repeated, simply. Quietly.

He seemed so far away, with the murmur of that simple word, and you’d do anything in the world to ease that ragged, tearing hurt you’d gotten a taste of in his kiss. “Inuchiyo… _Toshiie_.” You wished you were in a kitchen, and your hands left his chest to fret in mindless frustration, wishing they could form ohagi that would tell him what your voice couldn’t find words for.  

You pressed your head to his shoulder, and felt suddenly as though you might cry, and no sooner than did the idea pass through your thoughts were you weeping in his shoulder, fast hot tears soaking his bared skin.

His arms leapt up and around you immediately in alarm, “Hey! Hey! No—stop, hey! What’s wrong?” He swore, colorfully and creatively, and the absurdity of his language earned a snork of sobbing laughter, but you couldn’t stop; his hands were warm and firm on your back, stroking a little too quickly and a little too hard in their panic, “I’m sorry,” Another anatomically interesting swear, and then, pleading, “Come on, please don’t cry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” It was hoarse and fearful, and it only made you cry more. Helpless, he asked in shaken, increasing desperation, “Why are you crying?!”

“I don’t know!” You didn’t mean to yell, but it cracked in your voice, and his hands were pulling you back, brushing away your tears with soft, gentle strokes of his thumbs on your cheeks. “You won’t tell me. You…you just kissed me until the room spun, and then  _stopped_!”

He stared at you for a long while, you hiccupped and sniffed and tried desperately to make it end. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair for him to look so quiet, and so much older than you, when it was only a few years, really.

You wondered, with a sudden, freezing fear, if you had done something impossible to take back by asking it of him, and you felt yourself rattle in his strong, safe arms, “Did I…are,” Ask, ask, you hated how timid it sounded, “Are  _we_ okay?”

Shock made his eyes widen once more, and then shame, and he pulled you closer, cheeks pink and so familiar, “Idiot. We’re always okay.” His lips brushed your forehead, as they had a hundred times, and the oath felt forged in something stronger than words, firm and infinite. “We’ll always be okay.”

You believed him, and it made your tears stop even as the urge to sob in relief threatened your heart. But you clung to your anchor, and were torn, knowing the truth of it. You remembered his earlier reaction, and pulled your hands back, just enough. You knew, somehow, that you could make him lose his reserve if you left them there, but you knew too it would hurt him, and he would lose far more than his thoughts if he let himself be lost before he decided it for himself. Your throat ached, and you waited, holding yourself carefully still, and watching.

“You promise?”

Instantly, rough hands still soft on your cheeks, “Yeah.”

“So…”  _Please_ , “Will you kiss me again?” As you expected, he froze. And you cut off the protest with a shake of your head, and knew you were asking for more, “If it’s us, it’ll be okay.” No, that wasn’t right, not quite, “If it’s  _you_ , Toshiie, only you, I’ll be okay.” You let your hands find his shoulders, slide up his neck, still damp from your display, and let them rest, loose and light. His eyes, his beautiful eyes, lost but strengthening, and it was only a whisper, hanging between you in a promise you’d die before you broke, “I want it.”  _No_ , “This,”  _Closer_ , and you leaned against him, “You.”

He watched you. He was always watching you, you supposed, and the sight of him was lovely enough, mysterious enough in the flickering light that you decided you had not reciprocated the act nearly often enough. It was entirely fair of you, you supposed, because he’d never been able to say no, not when you really wanted something, and the guilt you felt over knowing that was nothing compared to the guilt of leaving him, having glimpsed the grief you didn’t yet understand.

You pressed, gently, into the wall of his chest, and felt him tremble, heard the hitch of his breath, and added, high and breathless, shakier than you wanted him to hear, “Please?”

Under your fingertips his pulse flew like a trapped bird against a cage of its own making, and his breathe came a long, broken sigh. His hands lifted, then fell, and then finally touched the ends of your hair, just the tips, and tangled in them, weaving the soft strands around his fingers, eyes on their silken shape as they flowed over hisrough, calloused tips. His hands were still shaking, badly, you noticed, and hurt for it.

Hands that held a spear steady in the maelstrom of war, undone by  _please_.

Finally, in a shudder, the whispered words reached your ears, broken and hoarse. “If I do somethin’ you don’t like, you say stop.”

Your eyes wanted to close in relief, melt, but his were on them, dark and certain, and you held his gaze and knew it matched. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.” There it was again, you realized. Something horrible and haunted in his eyes, and it flipped your stomach in uneasy nerves, but you reached up to brush wild hair away from his face, and promised.

“Okay.” And then, because it was important, “You too.”

Confusion clouded his eyes. “Me too, what?”

“If I do something you don’t like…”

A startled bark of laughter cut you off and you were seized with the urge to pout even as you could have cried for the joy of seeing his smile back where it belonged. Gently, his hands left the ends of your hair to tuck a few stray strands behind your ear, thumb lingering on your cheek. “Don’t worry about me.” The dismissive, self-derisive whisper had your eyes widening in alarm, but he blew past it, “Besides, you’re not creative enough to do somethin’ I wouldn’t like.”

You bristled. “ _Excuse_ me, you don’t know wha—mmf!”

This time,  _oh_ , this time it was slow.

Slow and sweet, his hands barely touched your cheeks, framing your face as he lowered his mouth to yours, gentle, patient.

You hadn’t known Maeda Toshiie could be patient.

Where your heart had stormed at the first kiss, now it fluttered, a surprised, gentle rustle, and your lips parted in a sigh. He went no further, pulled back, then brushed against your lips once more, light and longing and achingly chaste. You stopped thinking, leaning into him and losing yourself  to the slow, sweet pull as he took his time, testing the shape and softness of your lips and finding their taste sweet, and you felt dizzy against him and the low, liquid yearning pouring through at his touch, his gentleness.

He stole your breath as he pulled back, but this time it was because you couldn’t help but hold it, and hope.

“You scare the hell outta me.” It was barely a whisper, hoarse and unexpected.

Your eyes fluttered open in surprise, “Huh?” You fought to swim back to the surface, murmuring, “Me? I’m not scary.”

“Yeah, you.” A murmur to answer yours, and he didn’t elaborate further, but there was worry in that beautiful, protective smile as he stroked your still damp cheeks and explored no further, his breathe warm against your lips. “You’re damn terrifying.”

Your heart stuttered, and to hide it you wrinkled your nose and bared your teeth in confusion. “Rawr?”

He snorted a laugh, and you found yourself immeasurably relieved to hear the sound, and you waited.

To your dismay, he didn’t kiss you again, and you were beginning to suspect that, despite whatever ruthless hunger you may have inadvertently inspired in that first, ravenous kiss, he really was going to stop here. Had you misread something? Misunderstood what you thought you saw in his eyes? Felt in his hands?  "You…" It was embarrassing to admit, but what else was there to do? “Inuchiyo, you’ve fished me out of the river and carried me, drunk, home. You’ve seen me sick to my stomach on festival food and crying over crushes, stamping my feet from spilt beans, carried all of my shopping, and…and covered head to toe in deboned fish guts, what on earth is there to be scared of?” It was a reminder, a desperate reminder that you were real, and not out of reach.

But you knew, you supposed. You’d seen him senselessly smashed and snoring, knocked to the dusty ground in a bout, with scraped knees and a cracking voice. You’d seen him step in horse manure, smack into a tree, puking miserably after his first encounter with too much alcohol, stumble over words and shout out sheer stupidity. You’d seen him at his silliest and scariest, at his worst, and nothing scared you more than the thought he might set you aside and send you to bed right now.

He didn’t answer, just brushed his lips to your forehead, and you had to hiccup to keep yourself from starting to cry again at the tenderness of the gesture, the total surrender.

It shattered you.

It wasn’t enough, you realized, having his tenderness, his defeat. Impossibly greedy, gluttonous, you wanted it all. All of him, the guilt, the grief, the secrets under his skin he wouldn’t share. The strength, the sweetness, the silliness. You wanted his heart. You leaned in carefully, pulling him closer, marveling at how easily hard angles met soft curves, at the contrast of it, the fabric of your kimono thin and cool against the bare heat of his skin, and you were struck by the soul-sticking desire to kiss him. Not merely because there was something lovely and glorious about the solidity of him, but because it was Inuchiyo, and, you realized with clear, utter certainty, you loved him, and maybe you always had. So you leaned in, and pressed your lips to his, pure and warm and sweet, and he whispered your name and you felt peace to your very core, and loved him all the more.

Remembering something he had done earlier, you pulled back, considered, and then back, grazing your teeth against his bottom lip, tugging, and he groaned, and froze once more. Want, you thought, this was want. Lust, you realized with some surprise, having never previously considered it could be as sweet and longing as the love tangled up with it, something vital and primal, searing in your blood and shuddering in your heart.

It seemed terribly unfair, suddenly that his skin was bared, and yours wasn’t. You reached your hands to your collar, but they froze. You glanced nervously to the lantern, and seeing the quick dart of your eyes, Inuchiyo licked two fingers and put them out, just like that. Moonlight filtered in, reflecting off the forgotten sake.

You eased back, a bit, and tried not to think too much about what you were doing, letting the fabric slide down your shoulders, pooling to your waist and slipping your arms free.

He looked at you as though, somehow, you were irresistible, and precious besides. It was a heady combination, to be desired and adored alike. Suddenly embarrassed by the intensity of his hungry stare, you felt yourself flush, mortified to find the pink shade stretched down and over your chest as well, and you covered it with your arms and a heated hush, “Okay that’s enough.”

He caught your hands, touch light but firm in their demand, voice more growl than proper language, “No way in hell is it ‘enough’,” There it was again, in his voice, that storm that had taken you both over in those first few seconds, low and wild. “For as long as I’ve wai—” He visibly cut himself off, coughing and correcting, almost sulkily. “It’s definitely not enough.”  He looked alarmed, suddenly, and his brow furrowed, “Wait, is that a 'no’?” His hands abruptly released yours and you found you missed his touch immediately.

You felt jittery and heady, as if you’d mixed tea and sake together and had too much of both, and teased him to diffuse it, finishing the sentence he wouldn’t, as you caught his hands and pulled them back towards you. “How long  _did_ you wait, huh, Inuchiyo?”

He let your fingers curl with his, and his eyes took their time traveling. You let yourself fall back, knowing he wouldn’t let you be hurt, as he held himself over you and your back hit the bedding, wrists circled in his hands and held far away from what they would hide. “Too damn long,” It was a frustrated admission, and for a moment, he only looked, and you squirmed, which made him grin, and brush your temple in a kiss as gentle as starlight before he lowered his lips to your neck, teasing your collarbones, and you thought you heard him murmur  _forever_ , and felt your eyes warm.

Then his lips were trailing lower, those strong, hot hands brushed your breasts with reverence, made a low, sweet sound you’d never imagined pour from your throat. He looked far too pleased with himself, at that, and you reached a hand to swat at him but he took one of your breasts in his mouth with a low, needy hum and you tangled the hand in his hair instead, and whimpered as his teeth grazed the tip, sucking and stiffening with palpable pressure.

He released your hands but barely touched you other than with his lips, one hand’s knuckles hesitantly skimming your skin while the other stayed fisted in the fabric on your hips. It frustrated you, but he took his time, unhurried, even as you felt like the world was spinning out of reach, circling you closer and closer to some conclusion  you couldn’t entirely imagine.  _Why wouldn’t he touch you more?_

His mouth had left only to close on the hitherto neglected peak, suckling it and biting just hard enough to make you moan, and you tugged at his hair with a cry that pulled a guttural sound from him, and he paused, panting against you for a moment, trembling. You pulled, and he obliged, letting you drag his head to yours, press your lips to his, hard and feral, and you felt him smile into it, and pull back.

“Inuchiyo,” you urged, leaning forward to press inexpertly to his lips, missing his hands already, “Let go.”

He laughed, or tried to, but it was really only a wry, troubled smile. The texture of his palm was familiar. Hard and rough with calluses, dwarfing yours, but his fingers tangled with yours so naturally it was as though he had been holding them all along. “That’s a bad idea.”

You remembered the brutal, bruising kiss, and thought it was an excellent one, personally, but only said, “Well maybe, but you’re kinda full of 'em…and since when have you let that stop you?”

He huffed, unamused, and you pressed against him, marveling at your shared heat, how it felt, to be in his arms with nothing but the scrape of a bandage or two between your skin, and you felt his hands tighten, and felt dangerous and beautiful, letting your head tilt to the side, watching.

He looked away first, and with visible effort, pulled back, but he kissed you to make up for it, soft and completely draining, “For once,” This was murmured with visible exasperation, “Let’s listen to me and do things my way, yeah?”

He lifted you so easily it brought a fresh flutter to your already too-warm heart, sliding you out of the remaining fabric and tossing it inelegantly aside. And then he was laying you back down, as he wriggled out of his hakama and pressed you into the bedding with one of those long, liquid kisses you were starting to think you didn’t want to ever live without again.  He lingered, every touch, every taste, every movement slowly absorbed, coaxing more from you than you would have dreamed yourself capable of giving.

The strength, the power of his arms was desperately exciting, even as the sweetness of their tension, holding themselves gentle because you were between them, undid you. At last, at last he touched you, and while his mouth moved over yours, soft and light, your hands went restlessly to his back, giddy to explore the muscles there, hard and wiry and for the moment, yours. His palms glided your sides, your breasts, your stomach, and his lips followed, trailing kisses across your skin. You felt your hands flex and curl, restless, an unfamiliar yearning, and his lips were hot against you as he explored.

The silence unnerved you because you focused too much on what you felt, and it was too much: if you let it, it would overwhelm you and you were certain you would do something you’d regret. as his hand cupped the willing, yearning warmth between your legs, you shakily blurted, “Shouldn’t you be telling me I’m pretty?” and stopped at the sudden sound,

Ah—there was your Toshiie, looking, in rapid succession, completely baffled, then dismayed, and then wonderfully amused. You wanted his smile to be free of the grief, the wry, troubled unease. The guilt. And in that moment, it was. “You want me to tell you you’re pretty?”

Something about the way he smirked as his fingers suddenly slipped inside and stroked made you feel like you were far behind, and you sulked around the startled cry that threatened to burst from your lips at the low, slow drag of his fingers, “O-only if you mean it.”

“Ah,” feigned dismay brought his brows together, even as his thumb stretched above the fingers, and circled the bundle of nerves that had you wanting to scream even as your temper demanded the same, “Then I guess we have a problem…”

“ _Toshiie_!”

“I mean, I guess you’re  _okay_ …”  _Liar_! You knew, because he was looking at you with that troubled little wrinkle between his brows once more, lips soft in a smile and swollen, you realized and felt shy for knowing why, but his hand was moving, faster, then slower and nothing passed your lips but weak, lost sounds as he dragged you closer to an edge you were terrified to tumble from. “Alright, alright,” Like he was indulging a child, he acquiesced, and pressed his lips to your throat, and you knew he’d find a pulse as wild as midnight fields there, and he groaned as he did, and you pulled him closer, begging without words for something you couldn’t describe. He obliged, but it was getting harder to follow his movements, to think rationally, with his fingers circling your folds, tugging, pressing, gently and then harder, and your back arched in needy, carnal appetite. In unconscious cadence with his heart, your hands drew to his shoulders and fingers drummed on the muscles of his shoulders, then they slid down his front. You dragged your nails over his chest, thrilled and fascinated as he shuddered under your hands as your fingers scraped over skin and bandages and you smelt the sake and  _him_ and felt their fire.

“You’re not pretty,” You didn’t have time to process the sting of hurt before he finished, “You’re beautiful.” A kiss, light as summer rain, “You drive me crazy.” Another kiss, and then, nearly each word was punctuated with one, light and then less so, like the control he was holding onto so tightly was finally slipping, something you absorbed with vicious satisfaction, “You have for years.”

If you were in the sort of frame of mind that allowed speech, you would have said something, but you could only managed a breathless cry. You were thrilled, delighted, dazzled. His only response was a hum into your kiss and with a muffled cry you begged him for something wild. Close, so close, but to what was unfamiliar and heady as the alcohol long forgotten from your lips in favor of the taste of him.  His fingers pulled, stretched, and slide in and out with a rhythm you’d never known but knew instinctively, rocking your hips against them in a whimper. You couldn’t breathe, you were so close, dizzy with it and desperate. “Please,” you begged.

“Does that feel good?”

Your yes was as much a sob as assent, and you expected a smirk but saw instead a smile, bright and boyish and beautiful, and then he whispered.  "Say my name, will you?“ There was something hesitant in the request, but you heard it, aching, arching, climbing towards the edge just before you.

” _Inuchiyo_!“

A startled laugh, and then, rueful, "I guess that’ll work.”

Realizing your error through the haze, your hand clapped over your mouth in horror, but he was grinning and batted it away so he could kiss you, and then his hand pressed, once more, and everything tensed, violently, and burst free in heat and blissful satiety, and this time you got it right, “ _Toshiie_ , I—!” You couldn’t finish, it was only a cry of sound and sensation, bursting like water set to boil over the sides, and your arms slid bonelessly away, weak as water as the shudders wracked the strength from you.

Greedy, he nipped your neck and murmured softly, “Again.”

Exhausted, pleased, you murmured, “Toshiie,” and were rewarded with a blush, but he shook his head and you frowned in confusion.

“No that’s not…”

You realized what he meant, “ _Again_ , but what about—”  Your eyes dropped but he caught your chin and lifted it back for a kiss, light on your lips.

“Told you not to worry about me.” He murmured, rueful, and after another of the barest brushes of his lips to yours, he pulled back, leaving a trail of featherlight kisses even as you protested.

“That isn’t fair!”

His lips brushed your breasts, your stomach, and hips and—startled, you sat up, but he only eyed you mildly, and pressed them again to the softness of your thighs, “When the odds are this stacked against me, I don’t see the point in playing fair.” He took his time, exploring, his hands too, curving underneath your round bottom to cup and squeeze, as kisses sought out what seemed like every last inch of your skin, rough hands gliding around your legs, parting them.

Stacked against him? Against him? Barely recovered from the wave that had passed, you were poorly prepared for the grip of one of those wonderful hands on your inner thigh, and the low, languid sweep of his tongue where his fingers had been moments before. You had little choice but to surrender, whimpering from it. He was slipping, you thought again, slipping, even as you were, back into that swirling haze of color and heat, you could tell, because his hands were gripping your thighs just a little too tight, and you decided you’d never listened to him, now was hardly the time to start, and moaned his name, reveling in it.  He was going to make you senseless, you supposed, and you threw your hands into his hair, and pulled him away, closing your eyes against the ache, “No—” He stopped immediately, withdrawing, but that wasn’t what you meant, “That’s, that's…really something, but I want…” You swallowed, and felt the scarlet stain your cheeks, which in turn made his turn pink, endearingly. You let your eyes drop, and couldn’t hold back the shiver at what they found, and were a little shocked to feel your system  _crave_.

His eyes were dark, when you looked back up, and his lips were wet and shocked, and you were amazed you how little you cared. Or how much, you weren’t sure. With a shockingly steady hand, you reached, but he caught it and shook his head, and true to your promise, you stopped, and pulled your hands free. “C'mon, you know I…you know we can’t.”

Because you’d promised, you pulled back, trying to swim back from want and fire and remember more. You kept still, as much as you wanted the friction of movement, “I  _don’t_ know that.” It helped, you supposed, if you thought of it like a recipe. “Kinda seems to me like we have all the necessary ingredients.” You were pleased with the analogy, and smiled brightly even as he glowered down at you, and tried once more.  _Just enough._  “Toshiie…” There was little else to do but spell it out. “I want you.” It was mortifying how much, and yet, sweetly pleasing all the same. You watched his gaze waver, and knew he needed more. That was fine, you supposed, that was fair, because you did too. “Not because you’re strong, and brave, and beautiful–but…because you’re you. I want this, I want all of you, tonight.” You remembered the battles, and feared if not now, when? “And I…really hope you do too.”

You could hear your heart, and his, and the cry for air from two pairs of lungs. The rest was silence.

“You’re sure?”

It was more than ‘yes’. “Because it’s you.”

You had to catch your breath, lost for a moment in the sensation of him, wild, hard against you, hands tight around your shoulders, your curves flush to the hard planes of him, and the long, hard heat you’d never known but needed, in that moment, feeling a purely feminine pleasure as he hissed and you felt it jump. You were with him, and he with you and you wouldn’t leave him. You wiggled just enough to frame his face with your hands and pulled it to yours to press a kiss to him once more, just to get his attention. “I told you, didn’t I? Only you, Toshiie.”

His hands trailed down, as gently as though you were a fragile figurine, breathing as heavily as though he’d just been in a battle, and you supposed perhaps he had been. “Say no, say no now or not at all, I’m not…” He trailed off, into a stream cracked, low cursing, “If you don't…I’m not good enough, strong enough to stop if I…”

“I’m not saying no, Toshiie. I’m saying yes, I’m saying  _please_.” You thought of festivals, lover’s rocks and dreamy romances, daydreams and cherry blossoms, all the things you once wanted, and found you didn’t care, suddenly, about any of it. All you wanted was him.

But there was no way to answer him, because he was kissing you again, and the coiling, barely restrained strength of him was intoxicating, and you adored the shape and weight  of him and the way he pressed you deep against the bedding, and that long, low, liquid heat was building again with each scrape of his urgent teeth and brush of his hot palms against your skin.

 _There_ , you thought, dizzy with heat and triumph, there, you’d made him mad, and if he was mad at you he lacked the freedom to be mad with himself, and you saw in it his scowl as he dragged you against him. He bit then, and sucked, teeth grazing and tugging in half-wild trails across your skin, and the pain was a shock but more, it was pleasure: each rough scrape of his tongue and teeth ripped through you like a stone skipped into a golden pond, molten and rippling. You squirmed and gasped, and imitated inexpertly, pressing against his chest, his neck, those wonderful shoulders that held you so surely. That glorious edge he had sent you over was back, you whimpered and bucked against his heat, knowing what you wanted this time, and ready.

He cupped you once more, thumb and fingers making quick work in the wetness they found as you bucked against them, so lost in what they did to you that you couldn’t ask with words. His breathing was ragged and hard. It suited him, you thought, even as the slow sweetness had, to be just a little mad when in your arms.

The hazy, dreamy satisfaction was punctured, briefly, when you felt him rearrange you, and himself, so something harder and hotter than the rest of him pressed between your legs, and you shivered and he saw it, holding himself impossibly still. You wondered about your stare when you saw his, and imagined it was as dark and wild as what you watched, and no less full of love that ached more than even the demanding lust snaked around your gut, and for him alone you begged. “Only you,” and he pressed, eyes closed and trembling as he buried his face against your neck.

The pain was there, a quick stab that had you wince even as it quickly slid into the other ache, the one that had you rolling your hips where he had stopped at the twist of your face at his entry. He held himself unmoving, ragged, and, waited.

You bit your lip, then let your hands float down his skin, and rocked your hips with greater insistency. You moved, slow but sure, getting used to the sensation of fullness and blinding heat, and promised blindly, “It’s okay.” No, that wasn’t right, and you shuddered and arched your back with purely female sigh of satisfaction, reaching and pulling your hands down the back that had carried you too many times to count, “No–it’s you.” No wonder, you thought dizzily, some couples had so many children, if this was how they were created, “It’s better than okay.” The brief pain was long forgotten in favor of the thrilling heat, “Gods, I feel–” Blissful, ecstatic, full, and his. An odd, high sound fluttered from your throat, you raked your hands back up, over his shoulders, the wrought, wiry tension a testament to his restraint. “Don’t, don’t hold back.”

He sank deeper inside, then withdrew with agonizing slowness, and when his head came to rest in the crook of your neck, he nipped at the pulse and staked a claim the world would see. You tightened your arms around him and felt the wetness of lashes closed against your heated skin, and you loved him, loved him utterly and with everything that made you.

You wrapped your legs around him, urging him closer, deeper, and he growled, wordlessly, then reached around and took your hands, tangling his fingers with yours and pressing them into the bedding, and kissing you as he began to move inside you, achingly slow, and he lapped your whimpers up with his tongue.

It swamped you, swept over sizzling, frayed nerves like the crack of thunder in a maelstrom. Your hands, your lips, and your hips, you were hyper aware of where they connected, pressed together more closely than you had ever been to another human being, hot and painfully sweet, and impossibly cherished.

Each time he advanced, he claimed more of you, each time he retreated you sighed his name.

You wanted to cry, to scream, to sink into him immutably and irrevocably, into the rhythm you did your best to echo, frustrated when it wasn’t quite the same as his, and squirming even as he laughed, breathlessly, and corrected you with endless patience. Where your movements were fumbling, imperfect, his were smooth and familiar, devastating in their tantalizing, primal patterns. There was a quick sting of unease at the revelation, obvious though it was, but he pulled your captured palm up and over his scarred heart and you knew there had never been anyone else, not that mattered, not like this.

You wanted, for once, to take care of him. You bit your lip, considering the best way to go about it, and fretting for a moment until you saw him recover, smirking slightly down at you, but his voice was a caress as sweet as his hands, despite the words, “What’s on your mind?”  

You considered, for a moment, struggling to remember the few lessons 'Yahiko’ had been given, but struggling against the languid satisfaction of his unrelenting, agonizing pace. But then you thought perhaps you could do it, and without answering, lifted your hips and pushed—and he let himself be flipped, because it was you. You could tell from the way his eyebrows rose and then settled, arched in curiosity as you straddled him, hands splayed across the muscles in his abdomen and distracted, for a moment, by their shape. “I just…”  You started, and then felt your cheeks burn as you realized his were darkening at the impact of this new position. You swallowed, and continued, “Is this okay?”  

His fingers were on your hips, and dug in with a pressure that you had you gasping, and nodded.

You finally understood why he always said you were soft. Compared to him, you were—pillows of rising dough full of air and malleable to his solidity, unyielding and unforgiving. You pressed and he groaned, and you felt him ripple beneath you. It felt like heated silk, his skin, stretched over scalding rock, and you could put more pressure on but he didn’t budge. You pressed your nails against him, into the defined grooves that marked his strength, and he groaned again and shuddered beneath your touch, your name a croaked oath that made you feel powerful. And so your lips chased your fingers, and then your tongue. His skin was hot and damp, full of storms threatening to break, and scars both old and fresh told you stories he wouldn’t.

“Slow down,” Puzzled, your eyes opened, feeling dark and clouded in a pleasant haze like your thoughts. He was groaning, hands fisted in the bedding. “You do that again and this’ll be over before it starts.” There was something guttural and shaking in the words, as much promise as threat, and you were reminded of the times he tossed you over his shoulder and took your home, and knew to listen this time, or thought you did. Instead you rolled your hips, and felt wanton and reckless, and something tightened as you rocked and his hips met yours again. It wasn’t enough, you whimpered, craving, and kissed him, trying to explain, and he understood, releasing your hands to drag your hips to him, deeper, harder and you were lost to it, to him, and your nails clawed against him, urging him to be lost as well.

His palms slide, rough at last, skimming the sides of your breasts,  stomach, hips. You shivered under his touch and sobbed his name. His scent was stronger, saturating you, and you soaked in it, reveled in it, as he pressed up and in and out and you raised and lowered to meet him, the friction wet, hot, electrifying. Lift and press, again and again, drenched in pleasure and a floating, intoxicating world that was only him.

“Almost,” He growled, bringing his lips to your breast, and he bit down. Your head spun and knees went to water even as your blood went full, fast boil, steam under the skin so closely pressed to his. A single shudder wracked you from head to toe, the first shock of pleasure rippling into more, breaking over your body in a sob and as you went blissfully boneless, he flipped you back beneath him, driving you into the bedding with hard, gasping thrusts, mouth lowered and as gentle now on your breasts as his hands were hard on your hips, and impossibly, you felt the tension pulse, and then release, with one guttural, desperate moan of your name.

The sudden rush of warmth and fluid was as shocking as the pleasure had been, but not unpleasant, even if the implication made you flush. His weight fell against you, and you didn’t mind, because you could wrap your arms around him and know he was yours, and you both breathed heavy in the quiet of the moonlight.

The enormity of what you had done made you feel small, suddenly, and you remembered what you had asked, and felt nervous enough to let your arms tighten, which made him lift his head, eyes still dark and clouded with shattered storms, breaking into mere winds, and look at you, curious.

His expression was so peaceful, so kind, your eyes swam, even as you brushed his cheek with exhausted fingers. “So…” You swallowed, and knew you had to say something or you wouldn’t know how to handle this new normal. “Worth the wait?”

He didn’t laugh like you hoped he would, but he did slip free of you, and rolled to the side, tugging you on top of him while you squeaked, startled. His hands wrestled in your hair, adoringly, and he smiled up at you, soft and sweet and so terribly dear, “You’re always worth it.” Then you were in his arms as he pulled you, arranging you gently so your cheek rested over his heart. You felt safe, treasured, and he nuzzled your hair and made you smile.

“Though…I…If it's…” He trailed off, sighed, and got it out, “I’d rather not wait that long again.”

You giggled, helplessly, and fatigued, ecstatic satiety mixed with his warmth and the beautiful, even beat of his heart under your hand all combined to make you feel sleepy as a child, and in the heavy comfort of it, you remembered something desperately important. You pressed his lips to the scar crossing the heart you loved more than any other, beating steadily alive, alive. “I love you, you know.” Did he know that? You lifted your head, and realized he did, that he was accepting it at last.

He gave you one last kiss, as natural as breathing and just as necessary, and you thought there was no sweeter way to slip into sleep as he pulled the blankets over you and wrapped you safe. “I know.”

You knew what he would whisper next, and smiled, not needing to hear, as exhaustion won and sent you sliding sweetly under. You knew, too.


End file.
